


Revenge

by ParisWriter



Series: Challenge Fics [4]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Challenge Response, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mutilation, One Shot, POV Third Person, Revenge, Torture, Violence, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ParisWriter/pseuds/ParisWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Esme Cousland has been longing for the chance to get her revenge on Rendon Howe for a long time. Now, she has been given her chance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revenge

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and any dialogue taken from the game ©BioWare. Esme belongs to me. 
> 
> This piece was written for the 'To Quest or Not to Quest' challenge help by the Castle of Highever group on deviantART.
> 
> We were told to pick our favorite quest, and while 'Rescue the Queen' isn't one of my _personal_ faves, it's certainly Esme's because she finally gets to kill that bastard Howe. I always thought Howe got it too easy in the game when he died, especially at the hands of a Cousland. So, yeah... Esme is a _bit_ sadistic when she kills him. 
> 
> Also, while this isn't really a songfic, it was partly inspired by the song Had Enough by Breaking Benjamin, which always makes me think of Howe whenever I hear it. In fact, the bit Esme says immediately before Howe's final words are actually lyrics from the song. (Which you can listen to here, if you like: [[LINK]](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TQOwFS7pLhk))
> 
> Finally, the appearance of Ser Gilmore as one of Esme's companions was inspired by the Ser Gilmore NPC companion mod by Immortality.

**Revenge**  
  
It had all come down to this.  
  
Esme Cousland had only agreed to go save Anora because of where she was being held: the Arl of Denerim's estate, which was now being occupied by that back-stabbing guttersnipe, Rendon Howe. She didn't give a fig for Anora's safety. Let the bitch die, for all she cared. As far as she was concerned, the queen was a pawn of her father and likely just as bad for the nation. She'd even said as much when the elven handmaiden had come to Eamon's estate seeking their aid to free her mistress.  
  
Eamon had offered her a valid rebuttal, though: Anora's support would mean worlds to them at the Landsmeet. Unfortunately, he probably didn't realize that Anora would expect them to support _her_ rather than throwing in her lot with them to place Alistair on the throne. The old man clearly had learned nothing from his brush with death. Politics was a deadly game full of liars and those who would throw you to the wolves if it best served them. No... They would have to simply make Anora believe that they would vote to keep her on the throne in order to gain her support, then betray her at the last minute and put Alistair forward as their chosen ruler. That would come later, though.  
  
Right now, she and her companions were making their way through the dungeons of the estate – which they had oddly gotten access to through a passage in Howe's bedroom. Well, Alistair thought it was odd, at least. Esme, Zevran, and Roland knew better – especially Roland. He'd seen the sort of sick, twisted things Howe liked to do to people first-hand before he managed to make his escape from the hell that had once been Highever Castle. Wynne had seemed appalled that such an 'upstanding man' would take pleasure out of torturing another human being, and Esme had almost yelled at the sanctimonious old woman because if Rendon Howe was one thing, it _certainly_ wasn't 'upstanding.' They needed to keep their cover as long as possible, though, and that required the five of them remaining as quiet as they could... or else the entire retinue of guards would be upon them and she would never get her perfect chance for revenge.  
  
She and Zevran took the lead at each new passageway, sneaking through the shadows to scout the area and check to see where the guards were standing and how many of them there were. Then they would each pick one of the guards and strike their first blows. Alistair and Roland would charge in shortly thereafter, while Wynne stayed as far back from the fray as she could while still keeping them all in range for her healing spells to be at their most effective. They dispatched several groups in this fashion and freed any prisoners they found along the way who were still alive, including a fellow Grey Warden named Riordan and a couple of missing members of some of the lesser noble families of Ferelden. Esme had not seen fit to release Arl Urien's son, Vaughan, however – especially after having heard how the man had kidnapped, raped, and murdered the intended bride of an elf she had released earlier. Instead, she had plunged one of her daggers directly into his manhood and left him to bleed to death in his tiny cell... _after_ tricking him into giving her the key for the chest in his room which he said contained a small fortune in coin, of course.  
  
"I can feel strong magic close by," Wynne remarked after they had finished off yet another batch of hired guards. Esme looked in the old mage's direction as she continued to use part of the guard's tunic to wipe the blood off her daggers.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"It's coming from behind that door," Wynne assured her with a nod, pointing to one of the rooms they had been unable to access due to the locked bars that neither she nor Zevran had been able to break through.  
  
"This is it, then," Alistair remarked. "Let's kill the mage, get Anora, and get out of here."  
  
"You can all take the mage," Esme ordered, her jaw tightening as she began impatiently twirling one of her daggers in her right hand. "Howe is mine."  
  
"Are you _crazy_?" Alistair protested. "You can't fight him all by yourself."  
  
"I can, and I will," she said in reply, her determined teal eyes boring into his hazel ones, which were full of nothing but fear and concern for the woman he loved and cherished more than his own life. "I think I have proven myself a capable fighter, Alistair. Stop worrying about me and let me do this, _my_ way."  
  
"You should not fear so much for her safety, my friend," Zevran piped up from where he had taken to leaning against one of the stone walls of the corridor to watch the expected argument between the two lovers.  
  
"He's not the only one worried about her," Roland added, crossing his arms over his chest and fixing his steely gaze upon her. "I took an oath to protect your family, Esme, and that includes you. I would be lax in my duties if I did not enter this battle at your side."  
  
"Howe is _mine_!" Esme growled through clenched teeth. "You were there, Roland. You _saw_ what he did to them! How he slaughtered everyone in my family like they were nothing but cattle! My parents, Oriana, even little Oren... all dead because of that bastard's bloody ambition! I will _not_ let anyone else take his life, because it belongs to _me_!"  
  
"She is as vicious and fierce as she is beautiful," Zevran said, a wistful tone to his voice.  
  
Esme continued to stare down the two warriors standing before her – her lover and her best friend since childhood – and her grip tightened on her daggers. If they wanted her to stand down from this fight, they would have to _take_ her down.  
  
"Very well," Alistair finally agreed. "Wynne, I want you to dedicate all of your energy to healing Esme. We'll take potions, if need be. With the three of us on one mage, it really shouldn't be too hard. I'll use my templar skills if necessary, so be sure you stand clear. It's been a while and I'm a bit rusty. Don't want you to get caught in the crossfire."  
  
"Understood," Wynne said, nodding her head.  
  
"Zevran, keep an eye on her. If some extra guards show up, they'll probably go right for her."  
  
"Protect the mage with the oh-so-magical bosom, got it," Zevran replied, smirking at Wynne and giving her a saucy wink. Wynne merely sighed in exasperation and rolled her eyes at him, which caused him to chuckle.  
  
"Roland, you and I will do our best to keep the mage from casting any sort of spells which may assist Howe in combat. If you see him charging up to cast something--"  
  
"I _do_ know how to fight mages, Alistair," Roland reminded him. "Just because I'm not a templar doesn't mean I don't understand the first thing about spell-interruption techniques."  
  
"Right," Alistair muttered, frowning a bit. "Let's get this over with then, shall we?"  
  
Esme felt her palms beginning to sweat as she led the way toward the room Wynne had indicated. She had been waiting over a year for this moment. Finally, she would be able to avenge her family. She would be able to kill the man who had betrayed her father's trust. They would all be able to rest in peace, and her nightmares would finally go away – at least, the ones that didn't involve the darkspawn would go away.  
  
She paused outside the door and closed her eyes, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly to gather her courage and calm her nerves. When she opened the door, the first thing she saw was the ugly smirk on Rendon Howe's face.  
  
"Well, look here," he drawled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Bryce Cousland's little spitfire, all grown up and still playing the man. I thought Loghain made it clear that your pathetic family is gone, and forgotten."  
  
Esme let out a single, short laugh at that.  
  
" _You_ won't forget. Their memory drove me to you."  
  
She watched the smirk on his face fade, and in its place he put on a sneer of disgust. It was the same one he must have worn constantly when he talked about her father behind his back while plotting with Loghain to take over all of Ferelden for the two of them to rule however they saw fit.  
  
"Your parents died on their knees," he told her, the sneer turning to a grin over the memory of Bryce and Eleanor Cousland's suffering at his hands. "Your brother's corpse rots in Ostagar and his brat was burned on a scrap heap, along with his Antivan whore of a wife. And what's left? A fool husk of a daughter, likely to end her days under a rock in the Deep Roads. Even the Wardens are gone. You're the last of nothing. This is pointless. You've lost."  
  
Esme clenched her jaw tighter and tighter with each word he spoke. He was baiting her, using his words as a sort of verbal torture in an attempt to get her to act upon her emotions. He needed her to be irrational and make a mistake so he could take her out, too, and thus put a permanent end to the entire Cousland line. She wouldn't allow it to happen, though. She was full of rage, but she knew how to channel that rage and use it to her advantage, now, thanks to Zevran. She was no longer on a blind mission of hatred – though there was plenty of that burning inside her for this disgusting man, as well – but working toward fulfilling a purpose.  
  
"I know your little game, Howe," she told him, her voice quiet and calm. She heard Zevran chuckle quietly beside her and unsheathe his daggers. It was the 'calm before the storm' he had told her about, after all: that moment where every muscle, every tiny little fiber of her body was perfectly coiled and ready to make that first, deadly strike.  
  
"No shadows," she continued, taking her stance. "No lies. Just you and me."  
  
"There it is," Howe sneered, pulling his own daggers out but not making a move to attack. "Right there. That damned look in the eye that marked every Cousland's success that held me back.  
  
"It would appear that you have made something of yourself, after all," he commented, twirling the blades around to warm himself up. "Your father would be proud. _I_ , on the other hand, want you dead. More than ever."  
  
Esme didn't wait for him to attack first. She lunged at him with a scream full of all the pain and anguish she had been suffering from since the day she left her parents in the larder of their castle. With each strike, she remembered the horrors of it all – both the ones she had seen first-hand and the ones Roland had later recounted to her at her urging. Howe was not some soft old noble, though. He had been an exceptionally skilled rogue, himself, once. It seemed he had not let himself grow rusty in that department, either, as he easily parried her first several attacks and nearly caught her in the arm with one of his own.  
  
She knew she had to rethink her strategy, and so when he next tried to bring one of his blades down upon her she didn't dodge it. Instead, she blocked it with her own dagger and brought her opposite fist up to punch him as hard as she could in his side. Howe cursed at her and tried to swing his other arm around to stab her, but she twirled out of the way and instead he stumbled forward a step before regaining his balance and coming at her once again.  
  
Alistair, Roland, and Zevran easily dispatched of the mage they had been searching for but, as they had expected, there were also other guards in the room to contend with. Thankfully, they seemed happy enough to let Howe take on his sworn enemy on his own. Alistair found himself constantly glancing over at where Howe was fighting Esme, fearing for her each time his blade just barely missed slicing through her or plunging into her. His distraction gave one of the guards the perfect opportunity to get a shot in against him, however, and he suddenly found himself flat on his back with a sword rapidly descending to take off his head. Luckily, a shield bearing the Highever crest blocked its path at the last second.  
  
Roland dispatched of the guard who had very nearly killed Alistair, then helped the other man up, his eyes narrowed and a disapproving frown on his face.  
  
"See, _this_ is why I said I'm a better warrior than you," he berated the younger man. "You get distracted too easily. Stop worrying about her and focus on your _own_ battle. You'll be no good as a king if you have no bloody head, after all."  
  
He knew Roland was right, but he was still concerned for Esme. She had numerous cuts on her and while none of them seemed serious, it also seemed like she was taking more of a beating than Howe. Maybe he was wrong to let her do this her way. If he lost her... Maker help him, he would never be able to forgive himself if that should happen.  
  
Esme was aware of Alistair watching her. She wanted to look over to him and assure him she could handle things, but that would mean leaving herself totally exposed and giving Howe the perfect opportunity to shove one of his daggers directly into her heart. So far, he had been able to out-maneuver her every step of the way. No matter how she altered her attack pattern, he immediately changed his own to match it. Of course, she should have known he would be able to do that. He'd been watching her practice and spar in competitions for years. She would need to use something new, something she recently learned that he hadn't seen her do before.  
  
There was only _one_ technique she had learned since the last competition that she was absolutely sure she hadn't used in his presence before. She wasn't sure if she was good enough at it yet to properly pull it off, though. Still, it was the only choice she had. The initial surge of adrenaline was beginning to wear off and her muscles were growing more and more tired with every passing minute. Blood was trickling down her arms from cuts where his blades had managed to nick her, her breath was coming in increasingly ragged gasps, and some of her hair had come loose from her ponytail and was sticking to the sweat on her forehead in an awkward manner that nearly blocked the entire view out of her right eye.  
  
 _You had better be right about this working, Zevran_ , she thought as she took a couple of large steps back away from Howe. He looked at her curiously, probably wondering if she intended to surrender to him, but he never let down his guard. Esme gave him a cheeky smirk and winked at him, then tossed down one of the small pellets her trainer in the assassination arts had given her. It exploded as soon as it made contact with the hard stone floor, creating a puff of smoke which served the dual purpose of creating a distraction and giving her the cover she needed to back up even more in order to get the running start she would need.  
  
Saying a final prayer to the Maker that he not let her fail her family, she launched herself toward Howe at a full sprint, but dodged around him at the last second and instead leapt toward the wall. Her foot hit the stone and she used it for leverage to launch herself around, bending her opposite leg and bringing her knee sharply against the back of Howe's head. Zevran had told her that it usually resulted in an instant kill if one aimed for the neck, but that would have been too quick a death for Howe. She wanted him to suffer.  
  
Howe shouted a curse and fell to his knees. Esme landed on his back and rode him down the rest of the way to the floor, then used her daggers to pin him there through his shoulders. She twisted the blades in place, her lips curving upward into a sick smile as she reveled in the sound of his screams of pain. Leaning over him, she swatted away the hand that was trying to reach the nearest dagger before retuning to her seat upon his back.  
  
"This is for Oriana," she told him, pulling the blade out of his right shoulder and stabbing him through the had that had been reaching for the dagger, the other soon following suit and pinning his left hand to the floor, "my beloved sister-in-law who you called a whore because you're jealous you could never get a woman that beautiful to pay any attention to _you_ when you were younger.  
  
"This one is for Oren," she said, pulling the dagger out of his right hand and bringing the blade's edge down sharply over his fingers, cutting off the last two, "my sweet nephew who never did _a thing_ to you, or anyone else! Oh, wait..." She paused, slowly cutting off another of his fingers before continuing, ignoring his cries of agony as she did so. "There. Now you have just enough left to count out how old he was when you ordered him killed for no reason other than your own selfish greed.  
  
"This is for my father," she continued as she sank the blade of the dagger into the same kidney she had punched earlier, "the man who counted you as one of his best friends. He trusted you, treated you like a brother, and you thanked him by murdering him and destroying everything he held dear.  
  
"And this is for Fergus," she added, pulling the dagger from his side and stabbing it through his back and into his lung. "He may not have been there when you ordered our home raided and everyone within killed, but I have no doubts in my mind that you had a hand in his death, all the same."  
  
She tossed the dagger aside and reached back, pulling the Cousland family sword her mother had entrusted to her as they were making their escape together from its sheathe. She got up off his back and knelt next to him, pulling him up as far onto his knees as she could with his left hand still pinned to the ground by her other dagger.  
  
"You forgot your dear mother," he taunted her, blood spraying from his mouth as he spoke. Esme merely grabbed him by his hair and yanked his head back, then placed the edge of the sword to his throat.  
  
"You had to have it all," she said to him, the slightest hint of pity mixed in with the venom of her voice. "Well... Have you had enough?"  
  
"Maker spit on you," he cursed her, spitting out more blood onto the floor. "I... deserved... more."  
  
Esme stared coldly at him for a moment before violently slitting his throat to the bone. She threw his dead body to the floor and stood over him, silently watching the blood pool around his corpse for a long time before speaking.  
  
" _That_ was for my mother," she whispered, remembering how her mother had told her the family sword should be used to sever Howe's treacherous head.  
  
The sword fell from her hand and she began to tremble all over as she felt all the sadness and grief she had been holding back for months suddenly come to the surface. She stumbled backward into the nearest wall and slid down it, her body shaking with violent sobs as the finality of it hit her. Howe was dead. It was over. Her family was gone. She was alone.  
  
Alistair was at her side in an instant, but she only vaguely registered his arms wrapping around her and cradling her to his armored chest. She wanted nothing more than to strip that armor right off him and find comfort in his embrace as he had in hers so many times at camp. This was not the time nor the place, though. She knew she needed to pull herself together. They had a mission to finish. The mage was dead, which meant that the barrier which had been holding Anora in the guest chambers would now be gone. They needed to go retrieve her and escape the castle before someone else came along and discovered Howe's mangled, dead body.  
  
Esme closed her eyes and buried her face against Alistair's neck, breathing in the familiar scent of him to help calm her down. After another minute or so, she had pulled herself back together. Once they were back in the safety of Eamon's castle – and in a room with more privacy – she would be able to let herself go again, and she knew Alistair would be right there for her.  
  
"You know," Zevran remarked from where he was kneeling next to Howe's body, admiring her handiwork, "this may not be the best time to say this... but I do believe I was right about you, my dear Warden. Stabbing the vital organs, cutting off the fingers, the near-decapitation... You would make an _excellent_ Crow."  
  
Esme couldn't help but laugh, and Zevran smiled at her, happy to hear the sound coming from her once again. She had been far too melancholy and withdrawn as of late, and he missed the saucy minx who had become his best friend.  
  
"Shut up and get your ass moving," she ordered him. "We have a queen to save."


End file.
